Charting Destiny
by volley
Summary: Past and present merge, and lead Malcolm to a change of attitude.
1. Chapter 1

Set in Season 1, about one week after Shuttlepod One.

Grateful thanks to: IchthusFish for suggesting a title; Gabi2305 for catching all my plot blunders; and RoaringMice for her usual great beta job

§1§

Malcolm walked into his room and went straight to the window; and if his heart hadn't been so heavy, he would have laughed. Because, after he had officially turned away from his family's past, just minutes before, now his subconscious was making him turn his back, physically, on his personal past: his desk, his books, his childhood memories; all that had belonged to him and was, in some way, part of his old self. All that was behind him. Before him was a glass pane, and the endless sky.

The sky was clear and cloudless, but only because a chilly wind had swept all the clouds away, heralding the arrival of the colder season. Malcolm pushed away the temptation to make a ridiculous parallel with his current situation, and let his gaze get lost in that infinitude, willing his mind to reach to the darkness beyond it; the vastness that one day he would explore.

He felt hollow.

He shouldn't feel this empty; he should be excited and full of positive energy. A new life was beginning; a door was being closed on a period of his life that hadn't quite been happy. He had finally made up his mind; indeed, he had proven to himself and others that he _had_ a mind of his own, and that he was capable of taking his life into his own hands.

But this decision, important as it was, had not been painless, and the transition wasn't going to be smooth. Malcolm lowered his gaze to the familiar view: the street, the houses; the trees that had marked the cycles of nature. What would be outside his window, in his new life?

He had wanted this moment so badly; and now he felt as if someone had torn his innards out of him, leaving him an empty shell. The irony of it all was that he couldn't blame it on anyone but himself. In rejecting his roots, breaking with the past, he had ripped out his identity. Yes, it must be so. He had stepped past the line of no return and now stood in no man's land: no longer part of this home, not yet part of another, any other.

A figure rounded a corner of the house and slowly walked to the front lawn, arms hugging her shoulders, hopefully only to keep out the chill. As if knowing he'd be there, the woman stopped and turned, and looked up.

Malcolm met his mother's eyes and swallowed against a painful knot in his throat. They looked at each other for a long moment. There had often been silent communication between them. Indeed Mary Reed had taught her children as much with her silences as with her words. Malcolm watched her turn and walk away, bent under the weight that had unexpectedly been placed on her.

Heaving a steadying breath, he too turned, to his task, to the empty suitcase which lay open on his bed. It would be easy enough to fill it; perhaps, eventually, the empty space inside him would also get filled.

Right now, though, he felt hollow, and more alone than he ever had before in his life.

* * *

"Archer to Lieutenant Reed."

Malcolm's eyes flashed open to darkness and silence.

"Archer to Reed."

Throwing his covers aside, he jumped out of bed and stumbled to the comm.

"Reed here," he croaked out, voice hoarse with sleep. He fingered the lights on and squinted at the time: o-four-twenty-seven.

"You're needed on the Bridge, Lieutenant," Archer's terse voice came back.

"On my way, Sir."

Malcolm cut off the communication and rubbed two fingers over his eyes, feeling slightly displaced. Hadn't he just turned away from his window, back at…

October 10th. Today was October 10th, and even if he hadn't been conscious of it, his subconscious had bloody well thought of reminding him. Well, after he had nearly frozen to death in that Shuttlepod – not yet a week, was it? – perhaps his subconscious was even shaking a finger at him for choosing a life among the stars.

With a smirk, Malcolm grabbed the uniform that lay neatly folded on his chair and quickly made himself presentable. Then he left his quarters and hurried to the turbo-lift.

* * *

As he exited onto the Bridge, Malcolm's eyes were immediately drawn to the small ship on the viewscreen, hanging in space at an odd angle, and flashes of his own recent predicament went, unbidden, through his mind. Archer, standing beside the Captain's chair, looked his way for a moment that was a bit too long for comfort, before turning once more to the view. Aware that his face had probably shown too much, Malcolm hurried self-consciously to his post, which was already being vacated by the Gamma shift's tactical person.

"Hoshi?" Archer enquired.

Slipping into his chair, Malcolm glanced across the Bridge, at the Communications Officer. Hoshi was wearing her hair in a rather dishevelled ponytail; she too had, obviously, been summoned to the Bridge rather abruptly.

"Nothing, Sir," the Linguist replied, pressing on her ear piece.

"I am not reading any biosigns," T'Pol informed them.

Even the Subcommander showed signs of having been roused before the alarm clock: her face was slightly puffy. But Malcolm could not dwell on that oddity, for Archer was speaking again, and to him.

"Lieutenant?" he prompted, just as Trip Tucker burst out of the lift.

The Engineer took a look at the screen and lost his momentum. "What's up, Capt'n?" he asked. His uniform, slightly unzipped, revealed that in his hurry he had foregone the regulation black undergarment.

"Ship, dead in space," Archer said tersely. Approaching the railing in front of the tactical station, he leaned on it. "Malcolm?" he quietly urged again.

Malcolm studied the readings at his disposal. "It's a small vessel, minimum armaments, Sir. No match for Enterprise." Crossing his arms on his chest, he lifted his gaze to the Captain. "There is evidence of scorching on the hull," he said, with a frown. "It appears she was fired upon."

"Do we know what species?" Trip wondered, as he made his way to his post.

"Lorillian," T'Pol provided, matter-of-factly. "Life support has failed. Oxygen levels are low."

Trip gave the Vulcan Officer an odd glance. "Aren't they the ones who can breathe methyloxide?"

"Not after the age of four, Commander." Raising slightly ironic eyebrows, T'Pol added, "I believe it is safe to assume that the people on that vessel are older than four."

Malcolm cleared his throat. "I'm reading an inside temperature of two degrees Celsius," he said darkly. He felt Trip fret beside him, and didn't need to meet his eye to know what he was thinking. They both knew what it felt like to be in a freezing ship.

Archer crossed to the left of the Bridge. "Hoshi? Nothing?"

The Communication Officer silently shook her head.

"In light of what Lieutenant Reed has told us, if there are persons on board they may not be in a condition to answer our hails, Captain," T'Pol reasoned.

Her impassive voice made Malcolm smirk inwardly. Vulcans might bury their emotions deep, but on this Bridge the feelings of at least two men – the Armoury Officer and Chief Engineer – were quite near the surface.

"It wouldn't fit in our launchbay, would it?" Archer wondered, turning once again to the viewscreen.

Mayweather shook his head. "Almost, but not quite, Captain."

Pursing his lips in thought, the Captain paused for a moment. "Hoshi, programme a couple of UTs," he then instructed. He turned to Malcolm, green eyes boring into him. "Lieutenant, I'd like you and Doctor Phlox to get over there," he said, not making it quite an order, more like a request.

Malcolm tensed, hating the hesitance in the Captain's voice; as if he were a frail object about to break, damn it. He felt the eyes of all the Bridge crew on himself. "Aye, Sir," he said firmly, with a sharp nod; and started slipping out of his chair.

"How about me, Capt'n?"

Trip had stood up abruptly, and in his voice Malcolm had heard an unspoken question – _is there a specific reason why you're leaving me behind?_

"What about you, Commander?" Archer asked, turning steady green eyes on his Chief Engineer.

"They'll need someone to assess the damage," Trip said, shrugging lightly. And since Archer was taking his time to react to that, he added, jerking his head to the side, "Or even just to open the hatch. If you leave it to Malcolm, he'll likely blast it open."

Archer twisted his mouth in a lopsided smirk that looked suspiciously like a repressed smile. "All right, Commander," he yielded. "Hoshi, make that three UTs."

TBC

Looking forward to any comments


	2. Chapter 2

Thank you all for your reviews. This is an introspective piece, rather than an adventurous one, and I hope you will still like it. On with Chapter 2!

§ 2 §

Malcolm leaned back against the turbo-lift wall, eyes on the deck-plating. He had been surprised that Trip had asked to join the away party. But perhaps the man wanted to turn this into a sort of catharsis; a way to put their brush with death behind their back.

The man's Southern drawl suddenly filled the small cabin.

"Early start today, huh?"

"Quite," Malcolm huffed back, glancing up briefly.

They hadn't interacted much during this week, after their rescue. They were still a bit shaken, though they both tried to hide it. But right now he felt even less talkative than he normally did, his mind haunted by unpleasant memories, old and new.

"You gonna be alright with this mission?"

Malcolm looked up again, taken aback by the Engineer's directness. So the old Trip was back; the Trip who never really beat around the bush. Malcolm sighed, resigned to having to admit the truth.

"Boarding a ship which is probably filled with frozen corpses?" he replied, with a sarcastic lift of his eyebrows. "Can't say I'm looking forward to it. Not so soon after... you know."

The Engineer's blue eyes studied him. "Yeah," he croaked out with a grimace. "But we can't let that mission freeze us – no pun intended – with fear. Better to face things and get over them."

Malcolm pursed his lips. "I suppose you're right." Since Trip still looked to be assessing him, he added, with a change of tone, "By the way, Commander, I'll let you know that I'm quite capable of opening a hatch without using explosives."

Trip chuckled. "I don't doubt it, Lieutenant. But I'm quite sure you'd still prefer to blast it open."

The turbo lift slowed down as it approached the bottom deck. It finally stopped and the doors opened.

"I'll meet you in the launchbay in fifteen minutes," Trip said. "I guess we'll have to suit up."

Malcolm exited and turned. "I believe we've already discussed and dismissed the possibility of holding one's breath for that long," he replied, darkness re-entering his voice.

"Might still be easier than carryin' those heavy EV suits around," Trip managed to slip in, just before the doors closed again.

Malcolm smiled in spite of himself.

That 10th of October, a few years back, looking thoughtfully out of his window, he would have never dreamt that he'd become the Armoury and Security Officer of Earth's flagship; nor that he'd be serving with someone of the likes of a Trip Tucker. Well, perhaps if he had known _that_, back then, he might have reconsidered a life in the Royal Navy.

The near-death experience they had shared had had one positive aspect: it had forced them to see what was behind each other's outer shell – that outer shell that was so different from one's own.

Trip was still a bit too much for Malcolm at times; but these days he had finally started to think of him as a friend.

* * *

The green light near the Shuttlepod hatch signalled that the seal with the alien craft's docking port was good. Trip closed his helmet and turned to Malcolm and Phlox.

"Ready?" he enquired through the mike.

Malcolm nodded; the Doctor fumbled for a moment with the latch of his helmet before giving him a cheery 'All set, Commander'.

Trip proceeded to open the pod's hatch. The greyish hull of the alien vessel appeared, an ugly scorch mark marring it. After scanning the surface with his eyes, the Engineer reached out and started running a hand over it.

Thick gloves certainly didn't help one's touch when looking for a release mechanism on a smooth surface – Malcolm had to admit that – but seconds were ticking by.

"I _have_ brought along micro-charges, Commander," he subtly suggested. "Just in case."

Trip flashed him a look. "Hold on, Lieutenant. I'm hopin'..."

He trailed, his focus back on the job. Suddenly, with a metallic sound, the hatch slowly opened.

"...that you'll be able to save them for next time," he concluded, turning to give Malcolm a satisfied grin.

"Excellent job, Mister Tucker," Phlox commented with his usual glee.

A badly lit corridor opened before them. Malcolm's own smile faded.

Trip tapped the comm. link on his breastplate. "Tucker to the Bridge."

"Go ahead," Archer's voice replied.

"We are about to enter the vessel."

"Understood. Archer out."

Scanner in one hand, phase pistol in the other, Malcolm exchanged another look with Trip to get his silent okay, before raising one foot and carefully placing it on the other side of the hatch; a moment later he was inside.

Walking the semi-dark corridors of that small vessel would have been an eerie experience even without the added bonus of memories that were still fresh and quite raw. Bulkheads were frosted over; systems were obviously failing – when they already altogether hadn't; oxygen was scarce. All they needed, for an accurate recreation of their own lovely predicament, was a bottle of Bourbon; preferably full.

As he slowly advanced, Malcolm kept glancing at his scanner, but no sign of life blinked back from it. The reason became apparent once they got to the Bridge.

The dozen or so people that made up the crew of that ship were huddled together in a corner, in a heart-rending still-life group. Malcolm felt his muscles tense. He and Trip instinctively sought each other – a quick but troubled glance that hopefully was lost on Doctor Phlox.

The Denobulan slipped between them and hurried to the closest alien. Kneeling near the man, he passed his medical scanner over him. Malcolm exchanged another look with Trip; they didn't need to be doctors to know there was nothing could be done for these people.

Phlox turned to them and shook his head. "I'm afraid they are all dead, Commander," he indeed confirmed, in an uncharacteristically dark voice. "They have been for a good few hours, from what I can tell."

Death was never a pleasant sight, but this time it was deeply upsetting. Malcolm let his gaze wander over those strangers, feeling a sudden and improbable bond with them. He took in the aliens' pale faces; their bodies, drawn up tight. They were holding each other; perhaps to conserve body heat, just as likely to give and receive some comfort as life slipped away.

Malcolm wondered if that was how he and Trip had appeared to their crewmates, when they had been rescued from the freezing Shuttlepod. He had been unconscious then, but he seemed to remember that they had huddled together to fight the numbing cold, once the Bourbon had finished.

"Oxygen deprivation and hypothermia," Phlox quietly informed them.

As if it was necessary. Although it could well be the Doctor was putting to good use his degree in psychology, not sparing them a truth that was before their very eyes, making them face the facts. Indeed, behind the glass of his helmet, Phlox's blue eyes had turned professional, as he shifted them a couple of times, from Trip to him and back again.

Trip blinked. He tapped his comm. link open. "Capt'n, we got here too late," he croaked out. "The crew are all frozen dead."

Archer's voice came back after a telling pause.

"See if you can recover their logs," he ordered in a careful voice. "We should at least try to find out who did this to them."

"Aye, Sir."

They worked in silence, as if wary to disturb the eternal sleep of those hapless people. They left the ship almost on the tips of their toes, closing the hatch behind them like a tombstone on a grave.

TBC

A bit gloomy, I know... Comments are welcome.


	3. Chapter 3

Thank you for your comments. This chapter is a little short, but the next one will be longer, promise!

§ 3 §

It had been easier than he had expected, at least the first step – Why was his mind dragging this up again, from the depths of his subconscious where he wanted it buried? – He had walked into his father's study, careful not to make the wooden floor creek; stopped just inside the door; taken a deep breath; and dropped the bomb.

Malcolm shook himself back to the present. The Shuttlepod felt like heaven, when they boarded it again. Phlox went to a bench in the back. Trip took the piloting seat. Malcolm sat down in the navigation chair. No one appeared to be in the mood for conversation. A few moments later the docking clamps were disengaged, and Trip veered them away from the alien vessel, on their way home.

Home.

Malcolm allowed his gaze to get lost in the black universe outside the windscreen, and his mind in his inescapable memories.

"I will not join the Navy," he had told his father. "I am going to San Francisco, to enrol in Starfleet."

Despite his best intentions he had sounded confrontational. His father always seemed to trigger that in him, an aggressive stance. Being tactically wiser, now he would call it a defensive attack.

His father's grey eyes, those eyes that were the only thing they had in common – except perhaps for the stubbornness that was a definite trait of the Reed side of the family – had shot up from the newspaper. Steely, disturbingly expressive in their impassiveness, they had run him up and down once, while the old pendulum clock marked the ticking by of seconds.

"I will not hear of it," he had finally replied, tersely. And he had returned to his reading, as if he were dealing with a capricious child.

Malcolm had been prepared for this kind of reaction. He had planned things in such a way that he could have no second thoughts.

"I have booked a seat on tomorrow's flight; have already sent in my application. It has been accepted."

His father had looked up again, and this time Malcolm had seen the hurt. He had been surprised by the stab of pain that had pierced his own heart; he had been looking forward to this moment, to taking his life away from his father's grasp. But right then he had felt like a swordsman who, after inflicting a series of minor wounds, makes the final lunge and thrusts his sword deep in his rival's heart. That's what he had done, hadn't he. After letting his father down in many, more or less small ways, he had not spared him the bitterest disappointment of all. The kill, though, had not given him any pleasure.

"You are a Reed," the man had said; his voice not as strong as usual, marred by helplessness, more than by indignation. "Your life is in the Navy."

But by then the cards had already been laid on the table. Malcolm would not – _could_ _not_ – back up. And his father knew it; he knew his son was slipping through his fingers.

"My life is mine," Malcolm had replied. "I'm afraid this Reed will serve on a different ship."

He had managed a steady voice, a straight stance. At least that. His father might be able to survive the blow of a son in Starfleet, but not that of a son that was a weakling, or a coward.

"Bridge, permission to dock."

Trip's voice drew Malcolm back to the present. The Commander hadn't sounded his usual cheerful Southern self. No quip of the kind he often liked to take pleasure in; no 'Open the door, Capt'n' or 'Mind if we come in'.

"Extending the docking arm," T'Pol's voice came back.

Malcolm felt the Shuttlepod jolt as the arm grabbed it and gently lifted them into the ship's bowels.

He felt more at home than he ever had.

* * *

"We have finished analysing the logs from the Lorillian ship, Sir."

Hoshi stood dutifully at attention inside the ready room. Her dark eyes were fixed straight ahead, and Archer could tell her formal stance was a way to lock her emotions in a rigid cast. T'Pol was at her side, arms loosely crossed in front of her.

"And?" Archer prompted.

The Linguist's mouth twisted imperceptibly. "They were attacked by an unidentified vessel, Captain," she reported. "Their ship was disabled; damage was extensive to all systems."

Archer took a slow step towards them. "Do we have any visual recording of the attack?"

"No," T'Pol replied. "The crew gathered on the Bridge to face a boarding party; but the attackers were only interested in stealing their dilithium crystal."

Hoshi cleared her throat. "They were abandoned with life support failing, no engine and no communication." She bit her lip. "There is a recording of last farewells from each of those crewmen, Sir," she concluded in a choked voice.

Archer grimaced. It wasn't long ago that he had returned to Malcolm a disc with the Lieutenant's own last farewells. Not that he had listened to them all; he'd only gone as far as 'Captain Archer claims you told him you weren't even aware that I was serving on Enterprise'. It had been clear that the recording from there on was personal, and he had returned it to a rather self-conscious Lieutenant.

"I believe you will want to inform the Lorillian Government."

Archer looked up at T'Pol, who had spoken. She was obviously waiting for orders.

"How far is their home world?" he enquired. "Can we contact them?"

"It is at the edge of the quadrant. Too far for communication." T'Pol gracefully tilted her head. "Vulcans have diplomatic relations with the Lorillians. I suggest we ask Starfleet Command to forward the logs we found to the High Command, as well as the coordinates of the wreck, so they can inform the Lorillians and they can retrieve it, and the crew."

"You mean you want to leave those people here?" Archer asked with a frown of incomprehension.

"Captain, those people are deceased," the Vulcan calmly replied. "And without life support, there is no danger of decomposition; at least for a while. The Lorillians will have more than sufficient time to recover their vessel and its cargo."

Archer caught Hoshi's eyes widening and suppressed a wave of anger. He reminded himself that Vulcans were steered by logic.

"That 'cargo' – as you call it – is made of people who have dear ones waiting for them, back at home," he said, irritation lacing his voice.

T'Pol lifted her eyebrows. "I did not mean to be disrespectful, Captain," she said, almost in surprise. "It is the most logical course of action. Putting those crewmen in stasis and carrying them back to Lorillia would not be sensible, and would take Enterprise quite off course."

Archer drew in a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. "I will contact Starfleet Command and discuss the matter with Admiral Forrest. Hoshi, get them on line for me."

"Aye, Sir."

"Dismissed."

The two women filed silently out of the room.

Archer turned for a moment to his porthole. He could not see the alien vessel; only endless darkness dotted with stars. Somewhere out there were families who lived in blessed ignorance of what had happened to some of their own. He hated what he had to do, be the carrier of bad news; but it was part of the job.

His mind went once more to their own close call; to Trip and Malcolm being rushed to Sickbay, pale and unconscious. He was glad he hadn't had to inform the Reed and Tucker families of a loss. He wondered how Trip and Malcolm felt, right now. He had been reluctant to send Malcolm to that Lorillian ship; but he knew that if he hadn't the man would have noticed and felt bad about it. As for Trip… He had a feeling the Engineer hadn't wanted to leave the Armoury Officer alone, well-aware that he would probably face a repeat of their experience.

Those two had come back from that hapless mission changed. There seemed to be a new complicity between them. Archer frowned in thought. In the first hours after the accident, when his officers had still been unconscious, he had examined the black box of Shuttlepod One, in an effort to understand what had happened. He had only listened to what was necessary, only up to when that microsingularity had hit; but the Trip and Malcolm that had come back to them seemed different persons from the arguing two who had hissed at each other in that recording. He was quite proud of how they had carried out their duty today.

"I have Admiral Forrest, Sir," Hoshi's voice suddenly said.

Archer shook himself from his reveries and sat down at his desk.

"Thank you, Ensign."

Steadying himself, he pressed the link open.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

Thank you for bearing with me in this introspective story.

§4§

Repairs on Shuttlepod One had almost been completed. All systems had been taken apart, thoroughly checked, and damages repaired. The holes in the hull and in the O2 cylinder – those tiny holes that had placed his and Trip's lives at such risk – had been fixed, too. There were still a few loose wires, and pieces of panel to be screwed back on, but it was only a matter of a few hours of manual work and the pod would be as good as new.

Almost – Malcolm silently amended. The vessel would have to be fitted with a new impulse engine, and that would take more than a few days of work. Well, sacrificing the engine was what had saved their lives.

Slipping into the pilot's seat, he let his eyes roam around the small cabin. After coming back from the Lorillian ship he had spent most of the day in the Armoury, without managing to get much done; at the end of the shift his feet had taken him here. He'd found a couple of Trip's Engineers at work and had sent them away. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts. He needed to face his uncomfortable memories, old and new; and perhaps in this vessel he'd finally come to terms with them, and then he'd get on with his life. A bit of brooding usually did it for him.

"Missin' this place already?"

Malcolm jerked his head to the open hatch. Trip was standing there, uncertainty in his blue eyes. Malcolm heaved an inner sigh. So much for solitude.

"Of course not, Commander," he politely replied. Desperately looking for something to busy himself with, he turned around. Perhaps he could check the weapons array – something he had already done; but hopefully Trip wouldn't notice.

"You sent my guys packin' for what reason, exactly?" the man asked, climbing on board.

With his back to him, Malcolm closed his eyes. He should have known that his order would not go unnoticed by the Chief Engineer. And trust Trip to be direct.

"The pod was too crowded, with three people working in it," he replied. He wasn't surprised that a puzzled silence followed that idiotic explanation. Abandoning all pretences of work, Malcolm turned to face the blond man. "I was in the mood for some peace and quiet," he admitted.

"Ah." Trip jerked his chin up in acknowledgement. "You want me to go?" he asked in that charming way of his, the one that would never get him a 'no' for an answer.

Taking in the man's innocent expression, Malcolm thought briefly of the difficulty of demanding anything of a child like the one Trip must have been. Perhaps if he – Malcolm – had been a bit more like him he'd have a better relationship with his father now. But then again, if he were like Trip, he wouldn't be his father's son.

"No, it's fine," he breathed out. Actually, he didn't mind Trip's company. If anyone could understand him, today, that was Tucker. Malcolm wouldn't put it past the Commander to know this and have come on purpose.

Trip sat down at Navigation and looked around at the unfinished repairs, and for a moment they were both silent.

"Those guys weren't as lucky as we were," the Engineer said at length. "If only we'd stumbled into them a couple of days earlier…"

He trailed and Malcolm shot him a look. "Even a couple of hours can make the difference," he muttered, remembering what Archer had told him when he'd re-awakened in Sickbay: that they'd been rescued with just two or three hours worth of oxygen left.

Trip heaved a breath. "Well, Starfleet never promised it would be risk-free," he said pensively. "Those people must've known about the dangers of deep space travellin', too."

"Indeed."

Malcolm averted his gaze. He certainly had.

He had closed the suit-case, on that 10th of October a few years back, and sat on his bed, looking around and wondering whether he would ever see his bedroom, his home again. He had known active service in Starfleet was dangerous. Maybe it was even one of the things that had made it attractive. He had known that it was where he wanted to be – in deep space, not on some Ocean, or worse yet, _under_ it. He had been prepared to take the bet and possibly lose it. That's not what was bothering him – his scrape with death.

No. The fact was that coming so damn close to be covered in oblivion had brought to the surface annoying pangs of conscience; namely the guilt of having kept his family at arm's length. Because if truth be told he hadn't tried very hard to mend the breach of that October 10th. He hadn't kept them up to date with his career advancements, or even his whereabouts. Indeed he had tried very hard the opposite, to keep his life jealously to himself.

Had he died, a week ago on this Shuttlepod, he'd have passed away without ever telling them personally that he was serving on Earth's first Warp 5 vessel, as the Armoury and Security Officer. A recorded message delivered post-mortem wasn't really how he wanted his parents to learn about his accomplishments.

"You okay?" Trip quietly asked when the silence stretched. A grimace came to twist his face. "I mean… seein' those people…"

Malcolm considered. He was okay, yes. He was still here.

"We feel young and strong," he said with a sarcastic huff. "Invulnerable. But the truth is that we are so bloody frail that a little less oxygen or a temperature a few degrees lower will be enough to end it all."

Seeing the frown of concern that was creasing Trip's brow, he added, with a small smile, "I'm okay. Just in a contemplative mood, that's all."

He bit his lip. He had been so certain that his end was near, a week ago, that for the first time in his life he had felt free to speak, show his emotions; even record messages of farewell in front of a superior officer. The Bourbon had also helped loosening his tongue, of course. Yet even now he felt unexpectedly prone to share things with this man. It was surprising.

"I've been asking myself if my life is really only mine," he muttered on, in spite of the part of him which told him to shut up.

If anything, that made Trip's frown deepen.

"What's that supposed to mean?" the Engineer wondered.

Malcolm narrowed his eyes, the better to focus. "Have you ever stopped to think how far back our lives really go?" Trip's face was a blank, so he went on, "To the beginning of man's time. We are here because of that long line of people we call our ancestors." He gave a soft huff. "I've always thought that in a way we are survivors; survivors of wars, of plagues, of famine, of natural disasters or man's mistakes…" He silently cursed himself. He was showing a pessimistic, a _grim reaper_'s attitude once again.

Trip, though, simply blinked, looking intrigued. "And?" he drew out slowly.

"And I've been wondering if our lives are really only ours, to live the way we want; or if we owe something to those who came before and made it possible for us to be here," he concluded quietly.

Trip blinked again. "You've lost me," he said deadpan.

"Never mind," Malcolm murmured, turning to his would-be job. "I'm not making much sense."

The concept _was_ a bit foggy, unless he took the pains to explain a lot of things he'd rather keep to himself.

Mist had shrouded the world outside his window, on the morning he had left home. He had got up very early, deliberately before everyone else. He had climbed down the stairs, in his bare feet, and wandered through the empty house, not even sure himself why. Well, that wasn't exactly true. He knew why: to take a last look before anyone's presence would make him too self-conscious to do so. He didn't want his parents to read on his face how much, in spite of everything, he would miss the place. His father would think him an emotional weakling; his mother would feel torn. Soon he would have to walk out of that door, and he didn't know when or if he would ever come back. He had a train to catch, and then a plane, and then…

"You know, we only have one life to live," Trip said, piercing Malcolm's thoughts again. "I think your ancestors would want you to live it the way that fits you best." He shrugged. "It'd be pretty selfish of them to expect anythin' else of you."

Trip was quite perceptive; Malcolm averted his gaze, wondering how much the man had understood – or suspected. But with a sudden change of tone the Engineer spoke again.

"Comin' to the two of us… there is somethin'…"

His hesitance made Malcolm turn back. Trip was rubbing his forehead, looking uncharacteristically ill-at-ease.

"Hoshi and T'Pol found farewell messages from each single crewman of that Lorillian ship," Trip finally continued. "What I mean is… I'm sorry I bugged you when you… I could have been a bit more understandin'."

Malcolm shook his head. "It _was_ slightly obsessive of me; I was feeling bad that…" Cutting himself off, he wavered. Here he was: the baring of the soul. Should he or shouldn't he? He heaved a steadying breath. "I really shouldn't wait till I'm about to draw my last breath before realising there are people I left back on Earth who would like to hear from me."

That early morning, back at home, he had walked into the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea and had stopped dead in his tracks: a figure was leaning with one shoulder against the wall, in the semi-darkness, looking out of the window. How long had she been there? Perhaps he hadn't been the first one up after all. "Will you give me news of yourself? Let me know that you are all right?" his mother had asked, without turning, somehow knowing it was him even though her eyes had not left the misty view outside the window. "Of course," he had replied, forcing back the sadness. "And if you should end up serving on a starship?" his mother had insisted; this time she had turned to lock eyes with him. "Don't worry," he had said, "I'll keep in touch."

Liar. Bloody traitor.

"Sometimes, for all our good intentions, we fail people," Trip said quietly; even a little darkly.

Was the man reading his thoughts? – Malcolm mused.

"At least this time we get another chance; we can think of fixin' past mistakes," the Engineer continued.

Could he? – Malcolm wondered. Could he ever tie up the loose ends of his relationship with his family, make up for his long silence? He wasn't certain he'd have the…

"It's not always easy," Trip said, continuing his surreal conversation with Malcolm's thoughts. "But the important thing is that we can, we have a chance to do it."

Madeline had been away. His father had not got up to see him off. What a lovely good-bye, it had been. Malcolm's heart had been in a vice. In the entrance, at the bottom of the stairs, he had darted a glance to the upper floor, silent and dark. "He'll need time," his mother had murmured, reading his thoughts as Trip was doing now. A suitcase had stood between them, separating them already. Malcolm had felt an urge to hurry, to get through that difficult moment and be over with it. He had met his mother's eyes. "Mum..." The rest had not made it past the lump in his throat. "Take care of yourself, Malcolm Reed," she had told him sternly. But then she had breached the space between them, reaching out with one hand, and tenderly cupped his face, as she used to do when he was small and needed reassurance. She had always known what he – even more than Madeline – needed and when, in the way of emotional support; and had always silently given it to him. Malcolm had leaned into the caress for a moment; then he had picked up his suitcase and let himself out, into the mist of his new life.

"So… can we forget about what happened? Ya know – no hard feelings?"

Malcolm refocused on troubled blue eyes and suddenly realised Trip hadn't – of course – carried on a conversation with his thoughts but rather followed his own thread; and that his own protracted silences had served to make the man feel uncomfortable. Whatever had Trip got to apologise for, anyway? They had both failed the other, in some way, only to be there for one another, in the end. Unless he meant that little stunt he had tried to pull on Malcolm at the end, climbing into the airlock. Malcolm still wondered whether it had been an act of selfless courage or of cowardly weakness.

"Of course," he hurried to say, deep in his throat, before the silence stretched too long again. "I have more to be forgiven for than you do, Commander."

Trip's worried face smoothed into a smile. He jerked his head to one side. "Let's say we're even, Lieutenant."

TBC

One more chapter to go. Looking forward to your comments.


	5. Chapter 5

This is the last chapter. Thank you to all my readers and reviewers.

§5§

A clearing of the throat made Trip and Malcolm turn to the open hatch.

"Capt'n," Trip said in surprise.

"Good evening, Sir." Malcolm straightened in his seat, hoping against all hope that Archer hadn't heard any of their words. It had been embarrassing enough having the man give him back the recording of his farewell messages, even though Archer had vowed that he had not listened past the first few words.

"Starfleet has decided to use the Vulcans' channel to inform the Lorillians," Archer said, slowly climbing into the pod.

Malcolm shot up and left him the seat, turning to lean against the piloting console, arms crossed over his chest. Archer didn't comment and sat down with a nod of thanks.

"They think it's better, since the two already have diplomatic relations," he concluded.

"Does it mean we'll go off and leave the ship and those people here?"

Trip sounded outraged, and Malcolm could not blame him. It seemed a callous thing to do.

Archer shook his head. "A Vulcan ship will be here in two days. They'll tow the Lorillian vessel back to Lorillia. I've obtained permission from Admiral Forrest to stay here until they arrive."

"How are you two doing?" he went on to enquire.

"We've had better away missions, let's put it that way," Trip said, glancing Malcolm's way.

The green eyes shifted between them. "You may have been wondering why, knowing what you'd probably find on the Lorillian ship, I didn't choose someone else to send to that vessel."

"It wouldn't have been right, Sir," Malcolm said firmly. "We are your senior officers. You must be able to rely on us, no matter what."

"Don't worry, Capt'n, we're okay," Trip added.

Archer nodded a careful but satisfied nod. He looked around. "Repairs almost finished?"

"Tomorrow she'll be as good as new," Trip said with a touch of pride. "Except for the engine, of course. That's gonna take a little longer."

"Of course."

Getting up, Archer walked to the back of the pod, stopped and turned. "I wasn't going to tell you this," he said, a little hesitantly. "But the events of today have made me think back on… Well, I changed my mind."

Malcolm exchanged a glance with Trip, and read on his face the same discomfort he was suddenly feeling.

Archer waved a hand out, while he brought the other to rub his forehead. "When we found the two of you nearly frozen to death, Phlox wasn't certain he could save you," he explained. "While I waited for news from him, I decided to concentrate on finding out what had happened." Dropping both hands, Archer looked straight at his officers. "So I did something that you may not like."

Malcolm tensed, already knowing what Archer was taking about. Another furtive glance passed between him and Trip, who opened his mouth to speak.

"Capt'n, what happened between us on this pod-"

"Is really none of my business," Archer hurried to finish for him. He shifted his eyes again from one man to the other. "I didn't listen to more than I needed to, and nothing of what you told each other has been – or will ever be – disclosed. You have my word on it."

No reassurance could make Malcolm feel good. There was enough in those few hours of recording to make him cringe. As if he weren't embarrassed enough already, he felt a blush creep up his neck. He riveted his gaze on the deck-plating.

"Nevertheless, I can't deny that I am aware ofthe kind of emotions that were floating around in this vessel during those dramatic moments," Archer went on gently.

The pause that followed gave Malcolm a chance to go silently through his inventory of Navy curses.

"Capt'n…" Trip croaked out again; but Archer stopped him again.

"This is no reprimand, Trip," he said quietly. "I just want you and Malcolm to know that… well, I'm proud of you." Taking a couple of steps forward, he placed a hand on Trip's shoulder and gave it a gentle shake. "Of how you got over your differences."

"We've got to thank _you_ for that, Sir," Trip said with a subtle grin. "The Bourbon did it. It's difficult to keep arguin' when you can't think straight."

Archer broke in a soft chuckle, and even Malcolm felt his lips curve upwards. But when the green eyes sought his, in spite of the feelings he read in them, he was hard pressed holding them for long. The Captain's gaze could be quite penetrating, and today it only reminded him of someone else's. Too bad his father's eyes, whenever they had alighted on him, had communicated very different feelings.

* * *

His father had been there, behind the pane of his bedroom's window, watching his son walk away and disappear in the mist. Malcolm had known. He had felt the penetrating gaze on his back, like a blade piercing him painfully. He had not wanted to turn.

_I'm proud of you_.

As he walked with Trip back to their quarters, after taking leave of their C.O., Malcolm let the echo of Archer's words erase the memory of that moment. Maybe even he and his father could get over their differences. Maybe if he could summon the courage to try and build a bridge, who knows, one day Stuart Reed might even surprise him; the man might never go as far as admitting he was proud of his son, but Malcolm would be happy enough to know that he was no longer expecting his son to be like him.

"The day I have kids of my own, I definitely won't expect them to become engineers, or even like flyin'," Trip said.

He was doing it again, being a mind-reader. Malcolm flashed him a narrowed-eye look, part surprised, part wary, and Trip flashed back a grin.

"You know, in your long line of seafarer ancestors there may even have been pirates, Malcolm, have ya ever thought of that? You mean to tell me you feel you oughtta follow in _their_ footsteps, too?"

Trip liked to tease him but was definitely too perceptive. Malcolm stopped in front of his quarters and unlocked the door. Turning, he gave the Engineer an innocent look. "Good night, Commander," he said, deliberately dropping the subject. He had done more than enough practice sharing his feelings, for one night.

Trip's smile widened and turned mischievous. "Sweet dreams, Lieutenant."

As he watched Trip walk away chuckling softly, Malcolm couldn't suppress a smile of his own. He still had a bit of figuring out to do, regarding that man, but Tucker was actually fun to be around.

* * *

Once the door had closed behind him, Malcolm leaned back against it and let out a slow breath. It had been a hell of a day. He was ready for a long, solid sleep. There was that nagging voice telling him he should write to his parents – but not now; later; tomorrow, there was time for that.

Leaving the room in darkness, he stumbled to the toilet-room, where he finally fingered a light on. Tiredly, he peeled off his uniform and took the quickest shower of his life, before changing into shorts and T-shirt.

It was when turned back to the room that he saw it: a rectangular object sitting on his desk. With a frown, he took a step towards it and stared in astonishment. Reaching for the comm. link, he let his hand hover over it for a moment before finally pressing the button.

"Reed to Tucker."

"I was gonna call you," Trip's voice came back almost instantly.

"Thank you for the – uhm – present," Malcolm mumbled awkwardly. "I'm not quite sure how a sliderule works, but I appreciate why you wanted me to have it." Clearing his throat, he added, to lighten the moment, "I just hope you're not going to make it a habit of using your clearance code to let yourself stealthily inside my quarters, Commander."

A long pause followed. Malcolm's brow creased.

"Trip? Are you still there?"

"I take it it wasn't you who left a sextant on my desk, then," Trip came back deadpan.

It was Malcolm's turn to be stunned into silence.

"Sonofa… the Capt'n," Trip blurted out.

Malcolm let out a huff of disbelief. "Bloody hell, where did the Captain find a sliderule, let alone a sextant?"

"He must've had them. He's always liked old things," Trip reasoned. "He must've heard when we…"

Trip's voice died away; but Malcolm felt unexpectedly warmed by the Captain's gesture. His mouth curved into a small smile. "It's okay, Commander," he said, his voice coming out deep. "We found the right direction in the end; and made the right calculations. I believe that's what the Captain wants to tell us, and make us remember."

* * *

It was getting late, and the bed was beckoning. Malcolm gave it a long look. Talking of the right direction… Yes, it could wait until later; until tomorrow, but... He turned the sliderule in his hands. What if he miscalculated? There might not be a tomorrow. It took time to build bridges, after all, and time was a gift that – unlike this sliderule – might be taken away from him any moment.

Sliding into his chair, he heaved a deep breath and reached for the keyboard.

THE END

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